casanova
by oldrival
Summary: two old men finally admit their feelings to one another because one of them gets a headache


"I hope you all are having a good morning, because it's about to get a lot worse," JJ announces, stepping into the meeting room with a stack of manila folders in her arms. She hands one to each member of the team seated at the round wooden table. She leans to plug a USB into the projection screen's monitor. Uncomfortable coughs and stifled chokes permeate the atmosphere of the small, dim room as case files are opened.

"Geez," Reid mutters, "Someone does not like male genitalia."

"Wow," Prentiss remarks, exhaling heavily through her nose. The team looks up at JJ, whose lips stretch into a thin, disconcerted line, "Wow is right. Los Angeles police discovered two male bodies dismembered in exactly the same way over the past month. Their, um, genitals, both hands, and brains were removed."

Rossi flips back and forth between two pages of the file, mentioning, "The vics really don't seem to have much in common, other than being adult males."

JJ nods, "Yep. LAPD has already looked into their lives and they don't appear to have connections of any kind."

"Garcia, you'll need to double check that, please," Hotch looks up at her and the rest of the team from his open file, "And you'll also need to come with us. This isn't going to be straightforward; we really need to work together, efficiently. Los Angeles has a very large and diverse population. Finding whoever is responsible for this will be a challenge."

"Sir, I have picked apart these men's lives, and I'm a thousand percent sure there's absolutely nothing linking them to one another," Garcia clutches her laptop and takes a seat across from Hotch and next to Morgan, five hours into the plane ride to Los Angeles. Hotch tears his eyes from the open file in front of him and stares past Garcia at the vast expanse of pale blue sky the oval window of the jet displays. He feels a headache beginning to gnaw at the front of his skull, and tries his best to ignore it, "Are you certain? They didn't use the same bank, didn't buy cars from the same dealership? Nothing at all?"

"I promise you, sir, I'm super duper certain. These guys have nothing in common. They're just normal dudes. One of them only recently moved back to LA like a month ago after being gone since he graduated high school, and the other one has lived in LA all his life. One worked at a gas station and the other managed a pet store twenty miles away. They probably didn't even know the other existed," the rushed, worried tone that always seeps into Garcia's voice when she feels like what she's come up with is worthless oozes from her now as she relays her newfound knowledge to Hotch and the team.

"Maybe they're random," Morgan suggests, gingerly draping a reassuring arm across Garcia's shoulders, "This unsub could just be targeting adult males for some reason."

Hotch's head begins to pound, just barely. The uncomfortable sensation reminds him of Jack, pretending to play the drums on the arm of the couch in their apartment. The corners of his mouth twitch into something that wants to become a smile at the thought of his son. Reid's statistical rattling cuts the memory and the smile short, "There are ninety-nine point two males for every one hundred females in Los Angeles. It's a practically even distribution. For all we know, the unsub could be targeting anybody, and just happened to take two adult males first."

Prentiss shakes her head, "I don't think so. The deliberate dismembering makes me think the unsub has some kind of personal issue with men, specifically dealing with their…man parts. Considering what the body parts the unsub took could symbolize in the context of homicide, maybe our unsub was raped?"

Hotch tunes out briefly to pull out his phone and check the time. As the discussion dies down, he addresses the team, "We land in fifteen minutes. Reid and Garcia, I want you to go to the station and compile everything about the two victims that is even remotely similar. JJ, go with them and talk to the families. Morgan and Rossi, take a look at the first dump site. Prentiss, you and I will take the other one."

Prentiss is just turning to Hotch like she's about to make an observation when his phone rings. The bright, abrupt noise interrupts Prentiss and the June cicadas buzzing relentlessly amongst the nearby brush.

"Hotchner," he says with the phone to his ear, stepping away from the gaggle of uniformed officers swinging their flashlights around in the deserted parking lot.

"Hey Hotch, it's JJ. There's another body. I just texted everyone the address."

JJ shuts the door behind her, sitting down in one of the empty rooms within the district police station to interview yet another acquaintance of the latest victim. It's too early to force the victim's mourners to postulate about his death, but with the unsub's body count increasing and cooling-off period decreasing, the team doesn't have time to waste. Hotch watches from behind the large glass window in the hall. Rossi ambles up next to him, holding a cup of coffee. Their shoulders touch.

After two or three minutes, Rossi shifts, skeptical.

"Is it just me, or is something… off about her? I haven't been observing every single person we're interviewing like this, but the few I did see looked pretty distraught," Rossi ponders carefully. He doesn't want to jump to conclusions.

Hotch hasn't been studying the woman's mannerisms or expressions at all, really. The dull ache in his skull continues to make focusing a battle. All he knows about the petite Chinese woman behind the glass is that she was the victim's coworker at a local hospital. He observes the woman's facial expressions and body language attentively for a moment.

"You're right," Hotch nods, "Not a single tear. She looks… annoyed, if anything. Maybe she's already past denial and she's angry?"

Rossi produces a sound of agreement. Someone drops a mug in the room behind them and the sharp crash generates stabbing pains behind Hotch's eyes. Instinctively, Hotch brings a hand up to rub his eyes, and then his temple.

"You still have that headache?" Rossi asks, like Hotch told him about it. At that, Hotch's brow furrows, "How'd you know I had one earlier?"

Rossi chuckles a little, "You keep rubbing your head. And you're being even more terse than usual."

Hotch doesn't say anything. His lips curve into a sort of half-smile, though, because he's amused that Rossi notices these little things. Hotch supposes that after all, he is a pretty darn experienced behavioral analyst. Rossi sets his mug down on the windowsill.

"Whenever I had a headache, my mother used to do something for me," Rossi takes one of Hotch's hands in his own, "She used to rub this spot here. Sometimes it would help alleviate the pain."

Rossi's staring down at Hotch's stiff, pale hand as he rubs circles in the junction between thumb and index finger. After a few seconds, when Hotch's hand becomes relaxed and malleable in Rossi's own, the muted soreness pulsating within Hotch's skull seems to disappear.

"Wow," Hotch breathes, peering down at Rossi, "Maybe it's just psychosomatic, but whatever you're doing feels like it's helping."

Rossi smiles gently up at him from under thick eyelashes for a moment before focusing again on Hotch's palm. He snorts after Hotch's joints crack when he massages near the unit chief's knuckles. Maybe it's just psychosomatic, but Hotch thinks he feels an archaic but very recognizable knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he watches Rossi tenderly work the tension out of his hand. The back of Hotch's neck prickles at the realization, and he's beginning to fret that his cheeks might be revealing his inner musings through a telling shade of pink when out of nowhere, the door clicks shut in its frame next to the both of them, sending an intrusive wave of pain through Hotch's head. JJ is ushering the possibly irritated acquaintance of the latest victim out of the now empty room the profilers stand in front of. Her lips quirk upwards and she shoots a raised brow towards their conjoined hands but walks briskly past without a word. Rossi drops Hotch's pampered hand, heading into the common office area of the station, but not before giving his shoulder a brief rub and murmuring, "Come let me know if you need another massage."

The crime scene photos, finances, and employment records belonging to the three victims sprawled across the stiff single bed are difficult to focus on, let alone analyze, in the dimly lit hotel room. The reason behind Hotch's struggle to assess the documents in front of him is once again, the familiar pounding resonating from deep within his skull. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubs them, hard. If anything, the dull throb just intensifies. He knows his mind isn't with the case.

Hotch eyes one of the mahogany armchairs in the corner of the cramped room and tries to resist the urge to just sit down and take a break. His efforts to draw any sort of conclusions from the information his team and LAPD have worked to compile are in vain. He collapses into the chair regardless, which unfortunately isn't near as plush as its cushy facade implied it would be. Deep down, he knows his pounding headache isn't the only reason he can't focus. Hotch desperately doesn't want to admit to himself that the stupid old knot from earlier actually means anything, but as soon as he dares to even begin deliberating, he feels it forming again in his abdomen. He's always found Rossi attractive, but that doesn't mean he likes him. Does it? He wonders whether this is something new or if he's always contained repressed feelings for the older man. Sighing, Hotch rests his elbows on his thighs and puts his head in his hands. Even if he does definitely have a … he doesn't know - a crush on the older man, he can't. Relationships probably aren't allowed within their small, tight-knit team, and - oh geez, Strauss would have a fit if they had to tell her. Hotch's heart sinks. The number of past wives between them amounts to a grand total of four. Rossi most likely has absolutely zero interest in him, like that, anyway, so the potential repercussions won't even matter. Hotch massages his temples, headache present as ever. When he closes his eyes in an attempt to relax, all he can think of is Rossi. His stupid goatee, his stupid bushy eyebrows, the stupid way he always knows when something's wrong with him and exactly how to make him feel better. A dreadful idea pops into his mind.

Hotch could, assuming the other profiler was still awake - he glances at the digital clock on the bedside table and groans when it reads two thirty-something A.M.; he's most likely not in luck - head to his room, just to see if he knew any other methods to ease his headache. And, well, be totally sure that he has a crush on him. Hotch has no clue what to call whatever feelings he's experiencing - do adults get "crushes"? He hasn't had to deal with butterflies in his stomach since high school. Hotch takes once last weary glance at the paperwork splayed about the hotel bed and steps out of his room.

Rossi opens the door of his hotel room to Hotch shifting his weight and running a hand through greasy hair. Hotch realizes a little too late that sweats and his hair sticking up in all the wrong directions might not be a great look for him, in front of the guy he, well, thinks he might like a whole lot. Rossi ushers him in with a grin on his lips and a hand on the small of his back. The older man is still in work attire, save a belt and tie and quite a few buttons up top. He's holding a glass of scotch in one hand that Hotch can smell on his breath when he greets him with a much too enthusiastic, "Aaron!" for 2 A.M. on a tough case. Anxious, Hotch bites his lip when he feels the telltale knot of butterflies swell inside him.

Hotch plops down in an armchair not unlike the one in his own room, and a jolt of pain shoots through his head at the sudden movement. A couple documents slide off the bed when Rossi sits across from him on the edge of it. He doesn't seem to notice, which makes Hotch wonder how tipsy he is.

"What's wrong, Aaron?" Rossi asks before finishing off what's left in his glass. He sets the glass off to the side, "Is it the headache again?"

Hotch nods.

"I - I can't focus. I've been trying to study the information we compiled today for hours and … I just can't get anywhere. I don't know why this headache's come on lately. What if - I don't know, what if we can't find the unsub? LA is so big -"

Rossi stands, "Shhh. Don't say that. You're never like this. You need to relax."

Leaning against the side of the armchair, Rossi takes one of Hotch's hands in his and massages the same spot as before. Hotch lets his body go limp. The physical contact between them in addition to Rossi's closeness makes his heart pound, hard. He feels the pulse thrumming in his ears.

"But, Dave, think about it. Seriously. There are - what, I don't even know how many people in LA…" - "Too many," Rossi mutters - "We profiled the unsub having a medical background, which, I guess, narrows it down, but that means they're not going to make a mistake. At least not for a while. I can't even focus because of this damn headache, and -"

Rossi shushes him again. He steps to stand behind the armchair.

"You need some of what I'm having," he lets go of Hotch's hand only to start rubbing his shoulders over the back of the chair, "We'll figure it -," he hiccups and Hotch smells the alcohol, "- it out."

Neither of them say anything for a couple minutes. Hotch thinks he must be having some kind of fever dream. Here he was just ten minutes ago, head and heart pounding as he fretted about his newly acknowledged feelings for his charming coworker, and now he's relishing in an unprovoked massage from said coworker, headache fading fast.

"Aaron," Rossi drawls, kneeling in front of him, "I want you to know… I'm not as drunk as you think I am."

Hotch's heart leaps into his throat. He's not so sure about that.

"If I'm not mistaken…" Trailing off, Rossi puts a warm palm on his thigh and gazes up at him through those stupid dark eyelashes. Hotch swallows hard, "I definitely don't think you're mistaken."

Whatever he expected to happen when Rossi opened the door to him was very much not whatever was happening right now. But dear God, he was not complaining.

Rossi licks his lips, eyes trailing down Hotch's body. Hotch wonders what a goatee would feel like on his dick. He also wonders how Rossi knew he'd be so compliant and appreciative of, well, what he's fairly certain is about to happen.

"How'd you know?" Hotch murmurs, breath catching when Rossi's fingers hook on the band of his sweatpants. The back of his neck burns.

Rossi just laughs.

Rossi's leaning back and wiping his mouth with his sleeve when a cell rings from the heap of Hotch's discarded clothes on the floor. A glance at Hotch tells him that the younger man won't be able to answer the phone by the time it stops ringing.

"Hello?" Rossi holds the phone to his ear and Hotch has enough sense to hurriedly suppress the noises escaping his mouth.

"Hi, Rossi. I just - wait, I thought I called Hotch's number, why are you - ?" Reid's voice, a little raspy and groggy, sounds from the other end. Hotch's eyes go wide and he pulls a face at Rossi as he makes out what their junior is saying.

Rossi winks at him, "We're doing a little collaborative thinking. What's up?"

"Oh, why didn't you tell me? I could've joined you. Anyways, remember what Emily said earlier?" Rossi puts him on speaker and tries not to laugh, "She was inferring that the unsub was probably raped by a man, given that the hands and genitals of the victims are removed. Well, I was looking really thoroughly at the information from the interviews, and at what kind of people the victims were, and I think our unsub is killing men she or others close to her find to be sexist. I guess she's studying the brains or something - medical background - but, anyways, I think I know who she is."

Hotch lets out a sigh of relief.

He drifts off that night between Rossi's sheets after the vet's mouth enthuses him a second time.

Full of much more relief than he'd like to admit, Hotch surveys the moonlit lawn outside the latest victim's residence. Garcia and additional LAPD personnel were able to take a lucky chance surveying local news channels and catch a politician running for mayor saying a few trashy things about the women running alongside him.

"We did. Yes. Thank you, Garcia," Prentiss snaps her cell shut and runs a hand through her dark, disheveled hair. Morgan holds down the small Chinese doctor while she clambers into the back of a cop car in handcuffs. She hadn't harmed the politician too badly; there were deep incisions in one of his wrists, but what was left was salvageable. JJ and Reid stand at a distance with the LAPD chief surrounded by a horde of flashing cameras and microphones. Hotch doesn't understand why so many reporters track the conflict down during these wee hours of the night.

"That's LA for you," Rossi answers the unspoken question from bedside him. Hotch's heart jumps in his chest at Rossi's closeness and he shakes his head, "I swear you can read my mind or something."

Hotch is nervous and on edge. They haven't spoken regarding the previous night at all. Is he supposed to pretend it didn't happen? Does Rossi even remember it happened? Maybe he just wants to forget about it. But if he does, why has he approached Hotch alone? Wouldn't he be avoiding him?

"Perhaps," Rossi smiles and leans into Hotch's side a little - Hotch has no idea what's happening and desperately tries to remember which arm is supposed to hurt before a heart attack - "How's the headache?"

"Uh," is all he manages to splutter. Forming words is very difficult for some reason all of a sudden. It's a little humid, and surprisingly warm for one in the morning in Southern California, yes, but Hotch is certain the weather is not why he feels a bead of sweat slide down his back beneath the bulletproof vest he has on. He hopes it's dark enough that nobody will notice the rosy glow on his pale cheeks. Taking a step to the side so he can look Hotch in his petrified face, Rossi snorts, "I thought massages were supposed to ease your stress, not make it worse. Maybe you need another one."

Hotch lies awake that night - or, early morning, he supposes - in his apartment, and it's so quiet that he hears Jack's light snores from down the hall coupled with the almost rhythmic chirping of crickets outside. His headache hasn't resurfaced since the morning, which he thinks is a good sign. He wants to believe all of his stress has dissipated along with the headache, but he knows that isn't true.

What's kept him awake is none other than Rossi.

His mind can't refrain from replaying the night in Rossi's hotel room over and over. He thoroughly enjoyed every second of it; that's for sure. But the questions that surfaced earlier that day won't leave his mind either. He's pretty sure Rossi remembers what happened, given what he'd said earlier - he didn't have an immense amount of alcohol, from what Hotch can recall, and he thinks something like that would be hard to forget. That must have been what he was referencing. The possibilities are slightly overwhelming, to be honest. Does Rossi ever plan on doing something similar again? Would that be considered friends with benefits? Is that what he wants? Was it simply the alcohol and sympathy taking over - a one time favor? Hotch would really like to think his profiling skills would come in handy here, but Rossi's expressionless features render his unpredictable actions and vague statements unreadable. Yet Rossi seems to be able to read him like a book.

Garcia clears her throat as the team gathers their ready bags and case files, rising from their seats in the meeting room.

"Um," she starts, garnering the attention of them all, "As you all know, the Fourth of July is this weekend, and, well, as a result of families and friends getting together, I had to double book your rooms. Just thought I'd let you all know before you head off."

Hotch gulps and feels his mouth go dry. He shouldn't be nervous; he most likely won't even have to room with Rossi. He'll actually have an excuse to prevent him from seeking the vet out late at night this time. However, when JJ and Prentiss share a courteous nod of agreement while Morgan and Reid exchange a fistbump, leaving Rossi to eye him from his periphery, Hotch's heart beats a little too fast.

That evening, Hotch absolutely dreads and simultaneously can't wait a second longer to slide his key card through the electronic lock on the door to his and Rossi's shared hotel room. The team had been apart for most of the day. Things were, Hotch thinks, pretty normal on the jet over. The afternoon consisted of himself and Morgan analyzing the first crime scene while JJ and Prentiss worked with local police and the affected families at the station. Rossi and Reid traveled to multiple suspects' households accompanied by on-duty officers. He knows the rest of the team checked into the hotel already; he met JJ and Prentiss at the station with Morgan in tow. The three of them eventually left for the hotel expecting him to follow shortly after.

Steeling himself and attempting fruitlessly to subdue the butterflies in his stomach, Hotch opens the door. Rossi doesn't look up from where he's sitting and - oh geez, Hotch thinks he might die. There's only one bed. It's a decent size, but wow, Hotch's mind will not stop supplying him with quite interesting imagery now. He swallows, hard.

"Hey, Aaron," the words tumble out of Rossi's mouth. He sounds exhausted. He's sitting up against the headboard studying documents from the case. He's still in work clothes; pants and a collared long sleeve which Hotch thinks is more unbuttoned than buttoned up. Like last time, he remembers. His heart pounds in his chest.

Hotch mumbles a greeting in response and something about the shower. After all, he is pretty sweaty. And it's a solid excuse to do something other than drool over Rossi's stupid shirt that's practically begging to be taken off.

Hotch is toweling off when he realizes he doesn't have a change of clothes with him in the bathroom. Heart plummeting, he considers dressing in his earlier clothes, but he doesn't want to wear sweaty clothes post-shower. Hotch scans the tiny bathroom and really hopes he doesn't have to walk out in just a towel. He exhales thankfully when he spots a robe hanging on the back of the door. Taking a deep breath, he shrugs it on and opens the door.

Rossi hasn't moved, but now there's a nearly empty glass of something that's definitely alcohol on the table next to the bed. Hotch wants to ask him about the last time. At the same time, he doesn't want to totally ruin things for himself and end up with unreciprocated feelings he'll struggle to get over. That would be awful. Especially considering they'd have to share a bed afterward.

Hotch throws his worn clothes into a heap by his bag. He trudges over to Rossi's side of the bed and peers at the documents in his hands. They're detailed bios of the suspects.

"Anything promising from earlier?" Hotch asks, genuinely wanting to know but also break the thick silence hanging over the both of them. Rossi sighs and tilts his head back to look at Hotch.

"Reid doesn't think any of them are plausible. These two make some sense to me, but I feel like they don't fit the whole picture either," Rossi answers. He blinks hard a couple times when he realizes Hotch is standing over him, damp, in just a robe.

"You know," Rossi says in a tone that makes Hotch bite his lip and look at the floor, "Maybe I need a break."

Hotch isn't about to argue. Rossi gathers the papers from around himself and leans to set them on the adjacent table. Hotch tries not to look at the tan skin his very unbuttoned shirt exposes.

Hotch clears his throat, "What - What did you have in mind?"

As soon as he asks Hotch feels his face burn with shame. Could he be any more obvious? Rossi scoots over. Hotch assumes it's an invitation. Careful to keep himself covered in just the robe - he guesses in a minute or two Rossi will be thanking him for the easy access - he eases himself down next to his fellow profiler. Turning so he's facing Hotch, Rossi takes the hem of the fluffy robe in his fingers, a grin tugging at his lips. He leans closer, and their faces are so close to touching. Hotch's mouth falls open a little. His heart is racing and he's sure Rossi can hear it pulsing in his chest. The amount of time Rossi stays like that is almost a question - Hotch doesn't have an inkling of what to say, so instead he answers without words. Leaning forward to close the space between them, he presses his lips to Rossi's. The hand toying with the hem of Hotch's robe travels further up his thigh while Rossi's other hand flies up to stroke his jaw. Stunned for a moment because, gosh this is actually really happening, Hotch is frozen where he is. He reaches for Rossi's shoulder to brace himself and before he knows it, Rossi's tongue is pushing past his lips, deepening the kiss. As much as he enjoys Rossi giving him everything he's ever wanted, Hotch can't help but wonder if this is it for them. Oh yeah, he's definitely enjoying this, but along with the butterflies, doubt bubbles up within his insides and he remembers the one or two or three sleepless nights he's had recently because of his feelings about this very man.

"Dave, wait," Hotch presses a hand to the vet's chest, taking a moment to catch his breath. Rossi licks his lips and tilts his head in question. It takes some willpower to not dive right back into another kiss, but Hotch has to ask, for himself, "I know you might not want to hear this, but it's been killing me. How do you feel about - about me?"

Rossi's brow furrows, and he smirks, "Pretty damn good. You couldn't tell?"

Hotch shakes his head, laughing breathily, "That's not what I meant. Where are you - we - going with this? Whatever "this" is, anyway…"

Rossi grasps one of Hotch's hands in both of his.

"We're going wherever you want to go, Aaron. I know, sometimes, there's not a lot of -" Rossi waggles a finger between their bodies, "- verbal communication between us, but… I know you. I - I knew you were never going to act on anything you were feeling, so I… I don't know. I took matters into my own hands, I guess. I couldn't wait any longer."

Hotch smiles down into his lap. It's not a direct answer, but he shouldn't have expected one from the Italian. Rossi's right; he knows Hotch better than Hotch knows himself.

"Are you saying your way of telling someone you're romantically interested in them is to relieve their stress by blowing them?"

Rossi laughs, "I guess so. But - I'd say I'm kinda in love with you, or something."

It takes a lot for Hotch not to kiss him hard right then, but he can't resist joking, "Only kind of?"


End file.
